Atonement
by Stanleigh
Summary: ONE-SHOT. Set after Series 3, Episode 2 of CBBC's Young Dracula. "A person is, among all else, a material thing, easily torn and not easily mended."- Ian McEwan.


_DISCLAIMER: I own none of the Young Dracula characters or locations etc. The only thing I own is the plot of this story._

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is unlikely to be particularly good, so apologies for that. Trigger warnings for self-harm and self-loathing; I would advise you not to read on if you feel such issues may affect you._

* * *

Erin liked the scars.

She liked to pull up the sleeve of her shirt when she was alone and just look at them.

They were a reminder of what she had done to deserve them. They drove her onwards to what she hoped to achieve.

She liked it best when they were red, and fresh, and still stinging from the point of the needle breaking her skin. When they had scabbed over, or- worst of all- healed, she knew that meant trouble. Fresh scars meant she was safe for a while; that the burning feeling of guilt had been appeased. But old, faded scars reminded her that her compass would soon need to be liberated from its hiding place in her slayer's kit.

Living away from her parents meant that her little habit wasn't under threat of being discovered. Had she been at home, she doubted she would have been able to keep the marks concealed. But the freedom, the sheer freedom that living amongst vampires gave her… for the first time in her life, she had privacy. She had no-one enforcing ridiculous rules, secretly checking her internet browser history, reminding her incessantly of things that needed to be done that she had already known needed doing. It wasn't like she had been accepted by Vlad's family, though Ingrid had been showing a little warmth to her of late; but there was no-one she needed to impress. There was no-one around to disappoint, to prove herself to. If giving up sunlit walks and edible cooking was the price then, to Erin, it was a pretty fair exchange.

The knowledge that she was the only soul in the entire world who was aware of her little habit was precious to her. Erin had had secrets before, of course, and plenty of them- but this little secret was sacred. It was a private ritual, a sacrifice in blood to the one she'd failed, the only one in the world who she knew for _certain_ cared for her… or had done. Until she had stood by and watched his mortality, his capability for human emotion, ripped from his body in front of her very eyes.

Examining that night, slowing it down, straining to remember the minute details had become something of an obsession. Erin had filled entire notebooks with scribbled accounts, sketchy diagrams, in the hope that something would help her to make sense of it all. The panic, the chaos, the confusion had jumbled her thoughts, making her not quite sure of exactly who had stood where and who had said what. She often found herself questioning whether it really _had_ been Ingrid who had bitten her brother. The guilt would awaken, baying for blood, when that thought arose: she couldn't afford to forget. The details, the precious, precious details were all she had to try and destroy the Draculas- it was the least she could do to remember them. Especially as this- this_ disaster_ was all her fault. Ryan had been trying to protect _her_. And she had stood back and let him.

Remembering the fear that had paralysed her made her feel sick with shame; she was supposed to be a _slayer_, for God's sake. She had been trained to injure, to hurt, to kill. Her instincts were supposed to be second to none, her reactions knee-jerk; she wasn't required to think. Just do. Do what needed to be done.

Well, that was what she was doing now. She _would_ slay the Draculas, she knew she would- she just needed time to formulate a plan. She had long since realised that diving in all stakes waving was not the correct approach with this clan of vampires. They were cunning, sly, mercilessly ruthless; and if she was going to eradicate the entire bloodline then it needed to be meticulously worked out.

Thinking up wild plans of revenge, which only became increasingly desperate and unfeasible as the days stretched into weeks, was the only thing that distracted Erin from the sharp, stabbing ache around her navel. She missed Ryan. She had never been apart from him for this long before. He had so far refused to tell her where he was hiding, citing her safety and his lack of self-control as the main justification. But to go from living in the same house, attending the same school to not even a weekly phone-call had been a huge shock to Erin's system. Ryan's transformation looked to be gradual- he was fighting the evil, as he had always done before- but that only prolonged the pain.

And the longer he suffered, the longer Erin needed suffered.

How could she sit idly by, heart still beating, lungs still breathing, while her brave, brave brother endured the horrifying pain of the change? It wasn't fair. It should have been her. _It should have been her_. She knew it was true. The voices in her head told her so, over and over again:

_This is your fault. You let this happen. You're a useless sister, a useless friend. Selfish. Cowardly. Pathetic. He's suffering, every single day, and what are you doing to stop it? Nothing. You're content to let it happen. It's sick. You're sick._

The voices were right. Of course they were. And that was why the sharp point of her compass dragged itself across her skin. It was punishment- punishment for her failings, for her cowardice, for her shameful stupidity.

There were times, usually when she and Vlad were alone together, chatting and laughing and lamenting over coursework tasks, when she almost forgot what she had done. The blazing flame of guilt subsided and she could forget about Ryan and what he had become. What _she_ had become.

But when the laughter had died down and the essays had been written, the fire returned with a vengeance, burning all the fiercer. It was all Erin could do to avoid her radial artery as the needle scraped across her damaged flesh. She wasn't getting out that easily. Ryan would have to endure his pain for all eternity if she failed him again.

The shallowness of the cuts sickened her. It was disgusting, really, that her brother was coping with a terrifying transformation and yet she couldn't even cause the blood to run down her arm. She _drew_ blood, yes- but the cuts were slender, delicate… beautiful, in a repulsive kind of way. And Erin didn't want them like that. Her skin deserved to be marred; the slits across her flesh ought to be deep and ugly. But she was scared. Scared to press down too hard, to dig the point of the compass in that little bit further. The pain needed to be greater, it _deserved_ to be greater. The sting just wasn't enough. Her fear was holding her back. As it had always done.

They'd watched videos about it in PSHCE. Erin had squirmed in discomfort at the back of the room, flushing hot and then cold and feeing horribly conspicuous. All the people interviewed said they did it to try and numb their pain- the pain never numbed Erin. She didn't want to feel numb. It was her only way of appeasing the roaring, insatiable guilt ravaging her insides, tearing at her self-worth, her self-esteem, until she could feel every good feeling beginning to trickle away.

Erin wondered, sometimes, whether Vlad knew. But that was ridiculous, he couldn't possibly; it would tell him that she was a breather for a start, and then she'd be drained faster than she could say 'blood-bag'. But the way he _looked_ at her, in concern, in confusion, as the starched wool of her school jumper brushed against her wounds, perhaps dislodging a droplet of blood… She'd caught him staring at her sleeve-covered arm often enough, brow furrowed, tongue flicking out subconsciously over his lips. Perhaps it was paranoia. Perhaps she really was losing it.

Because Erin didn't think she could bear it if Vlad found out. Not only would it go hand in hand with the end of her life, but she could almost _see_ his eyebrows raising, his lip curling, his eyes darkening with mocking laughter. She didn't know why what he thought of her was so important- but she knew his disgust would be more than she could handle.

Erin knew she wasn't alone; the video had been sure to tell her some horrifying statistics. But in a way that made it worse. Those people had _real_ problems, problems that weren't their fault- Erin's pain was down to her. She couldn't blame anyone else. Well, Ingrid, maybe, but she was a vampire; they weren't to be underestimated and Erin had been enough stupid to do so.

She knew that she would never be able to make it up to her brother. He had made the ultimate sacrifice to protect her and had, in the process, lost his own life. The only ray of hope she could see was this Book. The Praedictum Impaver. No-one was quite sure what it was going to tell them- they knew what they _wanted_ it to tell them, certainly- but there was a good deal of speculation as to what it would actually reveal once Vlad got his act together and opened it. Erin was probably more desperate than the rest, more desperate than perhaps even Bertrand to know what it contained.

Because if it didn't hold a cure then there would be nothing more she could do. No matter how much of her own blood she spilt, no matter how many times the compass brought tears to her eyes… she would never be able to return her brother to his mortal state.

And it should have been her.

_It should have been her_.

_FIN_

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: Any feedback is much appreciated and greatly valued._


End file.
